Chapter 5 #2
Even more than usual since grandad died eight weeks ago.
The only other human he gave a damn about is gone.
Grandad was an asshole.
Strong opinions about what a boy should or shouldn’t be.
He sneered at my softness, made fun of my tears.
Anything that he considered weak.
Liking other boys for instance.
As more than friends.
I dare not tell a soul. Not even mum.
◆◆◆
The harsh cry of a crow breaks the silence, my attention returning to the fuel pump.
“No, not yet,” I plead. “Shut up, you tosser.”
Crows mean dawn. And dawn means sunlight.
I don’t have long.
So I pray for a bloody miracle.
Because trying to convince someone to give me a ride will be much easier while they’re stopped here than if they’re speeding past me on the highway at a hundred k's.
I press my palm against the tree bark until it hurts.
I think about my father’s tattoos, dark ink wrapped over muscle and sunburnt skin.
Snakes. Skulls. Monsters that seem to move when he’s angry.
Ray Watford, the tough guy.
The dishevelled town handyman who drinks all his money away.
Not many other options for people to choose from this far from civilisation.
He does sloppy repairs for people who pay in cash or beer.
None of that dough lasts long.
Never enough for a car, and certainly not enough for boarding school.
Just enough to keep a drink in his hand, and a pile of coins for the pub pokies.
My mother loves me in her own way.
That’s the hardest part.
That's what has kept me from leaving sooner.
She’s kind in small, discreet ways.
A hug when my father isn’t looking.
A piece of bread slipped under my door when I’ve been locked in my room.
A softness in her eyes that makes me feel seen and doomed at the same time.
More than once I’ve whispered to her:
“Come with me, Ma.”
And every time I say it, she looks at me as though I’m offering her the moon.
Before she walks away.
Before she changes the subject.
The guilt of leaving her behind makes me nauseous.
I push the thought away.
Swallowing hard, I reach for my backpack.
Unzipping it, I sort through its contents.
Two heavy water bottles.
Three changes of clothes.
Two packets of dry crackers.
One spoon.
Half a jar of peanut butter.
I rummage around with my hand to find a few stray items.
My notebook and pencil.
A toothbrush.
A crumpled stargazing map that I tore out of a school book five years ago.
A picture of a beach, also stolen from a book.
A steak knife from the kitchen sink in case I need protection.
Even though I'm safer in the wild than at home.
I have eight dollars in coins that the neighbour gave me for weeding her garden.
And one more thing.
The most important thing.
A photo of me and my mum that I swiped from a shoebox in the linen cupboard.
I must have been about seven when this was taken.
Even though I had missing teeth for different reasons.
What an ugly bowl cut.
Not that my hair is much better these days.
◆◆◆
Across the road, I stare at the power lines, remembering myself around that age.
Standing on the corner of Miles and Macrossan, I’d believed it with all my heart.
Even more than I believed in Santa.
I believed that if I followed those power lines they’d lead somewhere magical.
Brisbane, maybe.
That was one of my favourite words to whisper to myself as I played in the yard.
Or sometimes when I fell asleep at night.
Brisbind, I called it when I was younger.
Brisbind. Brisbind. Brisbind.
Before I left school three years ago, I once found a map of Australia.
When I searched for Jundah it wasn’t there.
Not even a dot.
But Longreach was.
And Brisbane looked so close at that size.
Only the length of three tiny thumbs across the page.
Brisbane probably has a Maccas.
I saw one on the TV at my friend's house.
I’ve always wanted to try fries.
Used to tell my mum that we should walk down the road to get there.
The road was a basic zigzag on that map.
“We can eat our fries at the top of a skyscraper,” I’d say. “We can touch the clouds.”
That’s as big as fifty or a hundred houses on top of each other.
Even bigger than my gum tree, which is the tallest thing I’ve ever seen.
Back then I thought everything cost a dollar.
I told my mum we could buy a house with my one dollar coin from Mrs Ambrose.
“Let’s live near the beach,” she’d whisper under my blankets.
A house with lots of keys and padlocks on the door.
Because we’d never let Dad inside.
I’d imagine that bastard locked outside crying, just as I have been on many occasions.
That stupid ugly door.
I’ll never ever walk through it again.
Not for all the one dollar coins in the world.
◆◆◆
Damn. Still no ride.
I’ll give it five more minutes.
The sky has begun to pale at the edges.
Just enough for me to see a dead snake in the gutter.
Poor bugger was probably crossing the road at the wrong time.
I suddenly feel exposed.
If I can see the snake, anyone passing through town can now see me.
Every abrasive caw of that stupid crow shortens my window of opportunity.
He’s warning me to start walking now while I still have the chance.
I stand to my feet, slinging the heavy backpack over my shoulder.
The pain makes me wince.
Goodbye Jundah.
See you never, I whisper.
There’s only one place I’ll miss.
I spent all day yesterday down by the river, sitting under my favourite tree.
Wish I had a photo of it.
Somewhere down the street, a dog has started barking.
Waking up the town, as though it’s alerting people of my betrayal.
Perhaps it’s jealous that I’m on the brink of freedom.
I watch the empty road.
Three slow minutes pass.
A sliver of orange burns bright along the horizon.
Fuck. I’d better start walking.
With shoes that feel like lead, and a heart to match, I leave the shadow of the tree.
Time to begin my journey north.
Back turned to the road, I head for the corner.
And that's when I hear it.
A distant rumble. An engine, low and heavy.
Imagined, surely?
No, not wishful thinking. Real.
The best sound in the world.
Headlights beam as the driver crosses the bridge.
They illuminate the Longreach sign until it glows a vibrant green.
Too grunty to be a car.
Too small to be a freight truck.
Not that I see many of those out this way.
Looks like some kind of ute with a tray at the back.
“Please be going north,” I sigh. “Please be a stranger.”